


threaten me with a weapon

by sickgirl_mp3



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: F/M, can u tell i've watched inglorious basterds 50 times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sickgirl_mp3/pseuds/sickgirl_mp3





	1. i'm gonna straighten you up if i find ya

Beyoncé's fingers begin to sting from the bleach getting to her hands as she cleans the bar she owns up. Business has been at a lull for the day, her two usual customers are their making conversation between themselves and she's a little glad she can get a breather.

 

“You boys good?” Beyoncé asks, sitting down at the bar with a heavy sigh.

 

Both men nod happily.

 

“Good, tell me if you need-”

 

The door swings open, bells above it ringing wildly with the force of whoever’s entrance, and Beyoncé jumps. They must've kicked the door open- it was one that swung which, she bought it because she thought it would be cute- she figures as much because a dusty, worn boot hits the ground forcefully. Her eyes stay on the stranger’s boots; she doesn't think she wants to look further up much.

 

“I’m sorry for the possible disturbance, but I hope you don't mind me and my men having a little congratulatory get together in your establishment,” they say, their accent making her believe they're either from so deep into the backwoods that this is their first time seeing the city or that they're being comedic because they've somehow heard about where she comes from.

 

However, it's thick and sweet as molasses, she can't help but to feel, and because of that she believes she's been a little  _ forced  _ to look up and see who's speaking. They’re a man, pretty obviously, and that man is wearing a proud grin that's so severe that it makes him squint slightly, and it's almost infectious. His eyes are a handsome shade of blue, and she notices the scar that begins to the side of his right eye and ends at the top of his cheekbone. He’s handsome.

 

“Hello, ma’am,” the man says, sticking his hand out for her to shake, “business for you’s about to be jumpin’ more than you do when you walk outside barefoot during a Texas summer.”

 

Beyoncé’s mid-polite laugh when the men he’d spoken about previously come rushing in. There are about seven to ten of them- she can't count them all because they’re scattering, wild, while she’s preoccupied with the man in front of her.

 

She blinks, turning back to him and shaking his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

 

She pretends to not feel how she burns under his gaze and the touch of their hands.

 

“Think you can keep up with us?” he asks, a wild, intriguing glint in his eye.

 

“Never met a costumer I couldn't satisfy yet,” Beyoncé says gladly.

 

“See we shall.”

 

He turns to his friends.

 

“FIRST ROUND’S ON ME!” he yells, his friends yelling back deafeningly.

 

Beyoncé gets them their drinks and the biggest one, who introduces himself as Donny, downs his almost immediately, letting out a wild yell for his friends before he gently takes Beyoncé's hand in his.

 

“Miss, you think you can get me another?” he asks kindly, his speech a little slurred because he's so energetic.

 

His accent is Midwestern- Bostonian, she thinks- and his eyes are soft, just like the rest of him seems, and she can’t help but smile warmly at him. He’s cuter than his superior, but there’s something he has that Donny doesn’t. She can’t put her finger on it.

 

“Of course I can-”

 

“You’re a doll,” Donny interrupts as he picks Beyoncé up and hugs her tightly.

 

“Oh, sir,” Beyoncé weakly objects.

 

“She's so cute,” someone from the group coos loudly.

 

“What a shy thing,” another says.

 

“What a woman,” someone else pipes up.

 

“Oh, stop,” Beyoncé denies, “You’re still gonna pay for these drinks.”

  
  


“So what's the celebration for…? I’m sorry, sir, I never got your name.”

 

“Raine.”

 

Beyoncé observes the medals decorating his shirt and jacket. “You some kind of a captain or something?”

 

“Lieutenant, ma’am,” he says as he sits at the bar she stands behind. Both of them watch his friends merrily drink and talk.

 

“Coming back from battle or somethin’?” Beyoncé asks, fearing she's out of the loop.

 

“Germany,” Lieutenant Raine says, “we’re done with our part of taking care of the Nazi problem there and in France.”

 

Beyoncé almost giggles at his pronunciation of “nazi,” but she stops herself.

 

“You shoulda told me so, Mr. Raine.”

 

Beyoncé gets another round of drinks for the men and they applaud her as she approaches them.

 

“Just as a thank you for y’all’s bravery,” she says with a grin.

 

Donny whoops happily and she grins harder.

 

“Miss, you got a beau?” he asks, pulling her to him by her waist and resting his head against her side, “‘cause my, are you some kinda woman.”

 

“Unfair, pretty boy, give the rest of us a chance!” someone yells.

 

Beyoncé giggles, patting Donny on the head. “Y’all are drunk.”

 

* * *

 

 

She gladly accepts all the compliments the group has to give her before she makes her way back behind the bar. She pretends to clean the part of the counter where he sits at before she realizes she can actually speak to him without sounding strange- at least she hopes she doesn’t sound strange.

 

“You need anything, Lieutenant?”

 

He shakes his head, looking at his friends. He has a distant look in his eyes and the steadily fading ghost of a grin on his face.

 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

 

“We’ve come a long way,” he says. “To quote my grandmother, the things mine eyes have seen…”

 

He trails off with a laugh and a shake of his head and Beyoncé’s head tilts; she’s a little interested. 

 

“What  _ have  _ you seen?” she asks quietly.

 

“Death. Grief, loss, blood on my hands,” he answers. 

 

For the first time that afternoon, she sees him look everything besides confident and proud.

 

“Any positives?” she asks hopefully.

 

“Scalping those dead Nazi sons of bitches and having those things flap ‘long on the wind while they hang off my belt like the decorations they were made to be.”

 

He grins and Beyoncé's eyebrows raise in surprise; she's upset that she isn't more shocked at his confession and that somehow his barbaric, yet justified act makes him more attractive. Beyoncé looks on as he huffs out a laugh.

 

“Best feeling on God’s good god damned green earth. For a while, I thought it was better than fuckin’, but that was before we stopped at a little brothel in Nice,” he says with a whoop and a slap of the bar, “The women in there ain't speak a lick of English but a well-cultured man like myself knows how to appropriately and efficiently overcome language barriers, and those girls changed my fuckin’ mind real quick.”

 

Beyoncé wants to roll her eyes at his cocky smirk, and she could slap him as soon as he takes a sip of his beer, looking at her from over the rim of the mug and lifting his eyebrows, but she finds herself smirking right back at him instead.

 

“You speak French, no?” Beyoncé asks in the language.

 

Lieutenant Raine chuckles, clearly amused. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

 

“Then what was the problem, Lieutenant?” she challenges, still speaking French.

 

She wears a shit eating grin while he looks at her with the exact same expression, but her mouth quickly forms into a smaller and smaller “o” as she realizes just exactly why he had no problem with the women in Nice. Something in her is jealous that she didn't get to him before them.

 

“First Lieutenant Jordan Raine never lacks a strategy,” he exclaims proudly, his head high. 

 

“Okay, First Lieutenant Jordan Raine who never lacks a strategy, where are you from?” Beyoncé asks with a laugh.

 

“Maynardville, born and raised, Miss,” he tells her. “Where do you hail from?”

 

“Texas,” she answers happily, “Houston.”

 

“Only things separating us this whole time was Germany and Arkansas,” Jordan jokes quietly, tracing a fingertip around the rim of his glass and looking at her.

 

Something makes her look away from him and he chuckles. The tension she and the air between them held could be cut with a knife- but somehow she figured it wasn't the kind she wanted to or even  _ could  _ object to.

 

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks.

 

“It's hot,” Beyoncé says somewhat truthfully as she goes to open a window.

 

She was a little hot under the collar at the moment.

 

“I didn't even notice,” Jordan goes to open his shirt as he agrees.

 

Beyoncé eyes him as he does it, observing a large, ugly scar that wraps around his neck and had been previously hidden by his shirt collar. He notices her staring.

 

“I was a Second Lieutenant. In all the 18 months I held that position…” he trails off and huffs out a laugh.

 

“What?” Beyoncé asks, brow furrowed. 

 

“If I tell you what happened, you won't believe me.”

 

“Try me,” Beyoncé says, though somewhat suspicious.

 

“Got hanged three times,” he tells her with a grin. 

 

Beyoncé struggles to find a response to that other than a dumbfounded “wow,” and her mouth just hangs open. She blinks, looks at him, closes her mouth, and blinks again, clearly taken aback. She wants to ask him to say more on the topic; apparently, he can read minds.

 

“Me and the boys weaseled our way out of ‘em every time like the sly old foxes we are, too,” he says pridefully.

 

“Wow,” Beyoncé accidentally says, amazed.

 

“My daddy was a legend of a mountain man, and you think I ain’t gonna get anything from him?” he scoffs. “Hell naw, if I’m in it, I’m gettin’ out of it. Y’know, the second time I got lynched is when they started callin’ me Apache.”

 

“Apache, sir?” Beyoncé asks, unable to help the utter wonderment in her tone.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause I hopped my ass down from that damn noose, called my men out, got rowdy, and left all of those German devils for dead except for two, I said, ‘Donny, leave ‘em!’ and I scalped one their friends right in front of their eyes and one of ‘em looked me dead in the eye while I did it and said, ‘You’re that little bastard from the fucking backwoods, that Apache-type motherfucker,’ and I said,” Jordan recalls with a happy expression, “I said to him, ‘You call me Lieutenant Raine first and then you can call me Apache,’ and I killed his friend that was still alive, scalped him, and I waved it in that man’s face and let out the wildest shout of my life-”

 

“Old son of a bitch died with the typa fear in him that only God and Raine could instill!” Donny shouts. “Hell hath no fucking fury!”

 

Jordan laughs. Beyoncé looks on, stunned.

 

“Was that too much, ma’am?” Jordan asks, not wiping the smirk off of his face.

 

Beyoncé swallows hard. “No.”

 

Yes. She wants to tell him that yes, it is too much, that it makes her want him despite her not knowing him for 48 hours at the very least. It’s too much to put actual thought into, and that’s great, because she doesn’t have to put absolutely  _ any  _ thought into at least getting him as worked up as he effortlessly has her. 

  
  


“Then what’s got you bothered?”

  
  


“Something’s weighing a little heavy on my heart, I guess,” Beyoncé says, walking over to his side of the counter and putting her hand on his shoulder.

 

Sturdy, she notes to herself as she looks him into the eye. He hasn’t gotten anything from her yet, nor her from him, but something- something that is, yet again, inexplicable- has her feeling and him looking like they want more. Beyoncé’s beginning to think she’s just here for the strange thrill this man is seemingly advertising.

 

“I just wanna thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she tells him, rubbing his arm gently, “I wanna thank you for risking your life for our…”

 

Jordan grins knowingly, bashfully. “Aw, ma’am-”

 

Beyoncé continues on, breathing out an airy sigh of feigned conviction as her hand makes its way to his back.

 

“-For our beautiful country. And I don’t know how to thank you enough, Lieutenant,” she says, her hand somehow finding its way up to his back and then the nape of his neck as her tone gets terribly sweeter by the second. He looks at her with a soft smile and terrible, terrible look in his eye that could only mean the worst of things, and she swears she’d do almost anything this near-stranger asked her to at the moment. “If there’s anything you ever need, you let me know.”

 

She starts to make her way back behind the counter and he grabs her arm, pulling her back to him and holding her by the shoulders, keeping her against him.

 

“I think what I need,” he says lowly into her ear, his drawl lazy but thick like honey, “is for you to tell me just exactly what it is you want from me, ma’am.”

 

“What kind of strategy do you have for the little supply closet I have in the back?” she asks quietly, upset at how she’s putty in his hands despite him doing nothing but speaking to her.

 

“You leave the dirty work to me, Miss.”


	2. it's time to take us off the shelves

When he pulls a knife out of his boot, Beyoncé isn’t surprised, but she is slightly frightened because she realizes that this man doesn’t seem as if he really made anything higher than a C on his psych exams- if they gave letter grades for the state of one’s mental health. She could technically die or be severely injured, but her more irrational side wouldn’t mind that much, she thinks. She’s pinned between the lieutenant and the shelf, her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He puts the blade between his teeth and grabs her waist.

 

“I got you, let go,” he tells her.

 

She complies and he leans her back. She rests her elbows on the shelves behind her and he grabs her dress, swiftly cutting it down the middle; she gasps in surprise at him ruining her dress and at getting nicked slightly. Jordan trails kisses down from her neck and leaves one right on the spot where she got cut and she winces at the sting. When he licks his lips and tastes the blood he scowls before noticing the cut.

 

“‘Pologies,” he says, dipping his head back down suck at the blood.

 

Beyoncé makes a noise of confusion and Jordan must perceive it as a positive reaction because he doesn’t stop. She doesn’t know how to react to him doing any of that, but something in her doesn’t want to even bother with it, and another part doesn’t want to question him at all because she knows that he knows what he’s doing. He stops and looks at her.

 

“Was that strange? I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s outta habit,” he explains.

 

Beyoncé stares at him for a moment, searching his eyes and finding something almost hungry in them, and she pulls herself up to kiss him deeply, and she tastes coppery blood and liquor; while she should be repulsed, she strangely isn’t. She writes that off as adrenaline and bites gently at his lip, feeling him press his arm against her.

 

“Why’s your arm right there?” she asks quietly.

 

He lets her down to stand on her own again and cuts her underwear off, looking at her with a sly smile.

 

“Not my arm, darlin’,” he says with a laugh, kissing up her thigh.

 

That wasn’t his arm. 

 

Beyoncé almost cries, but she moves on, pushing his head closer to her gently before she realizes she hasn’t exactly been shaving like she usually does.

 

“Wait, I haven’t shaved,” she says with a frown.

 

“Miss, do I look like I give a damn?” he asks, nosing at her hip and kissing it. 

 

Beyoncé laughs.

 

“Answer me, do I look like I give a damn?” he reiterates.

 

“No,” she answers softly.

 

“”No” what? You call me Lieutenant,” he says, only half joking.

 

“No, Lieutenant,” she obliges.

 

“Do I look like I give a shit?” he asks.

 

“No, Lieutenant,” she says.

 

“Lastly, do I look like I give a fuck?” 

 

“No, Lieutenant.”

 

“Then don’t warn a man- a man who clearly don’t give a fuck- of shit,” Jordan says, biting at her inner thigh gently.

 

The light from the bare bulb that hangs down in the closet casts shadows on the walls. Her hands tangle in his hair when he’s right where she wants him, and she exhales from her nose quietly as she lets her head hit the shelf behind her. A dull sound rings out through the small space and fades just as fast as it comes. She feels Jordan tentatively lick at her and she moves her hips against his face subtly to show she wants more- with him being rough around the edges and all, she expected more confidence. 

 

“Performance anxiety?” Beyoncé jokes.

 

Jordan stops what he's doing to look at her in confusion. “Fuck no.”

 

“Then why aren't you getting on with it?” Beyoncé asks.

 

Jordan looks at her expectantly.

 

“Lieutenant.”

 

“Thank you, and I was only-”

 

“I don't want an explanation, I want some action!” Beyoncé presses.

 

Jordan laughs and spits on her pussy; the event makes her gasp quietly with shock.

 

“...Why?” Beyoncé asks, stupefied and annoyed at how much more turned on she is.

 

Jordan spits on her again and rubs her clit. He presses a quick kiss to her navel and she looks down at him in slight, sort of unfounded amazement, her lip caught between her teeth. He smiles and winks at her before his head is between her legs again, and this time he's slipping a finger into her while he licks at her quietly, and soon enough he works his way up to add another. The only things she can hear are the short breaths he pushes out of his nose and the satisfied noises she makes when he digs his dull nails into her thigh with his free hand.

 

In a way, she's doing her country a  _ great  _ service right now. Not really, since Jordan and his friends’ jobs are finished, but at least she's honoring one of the men who protect and serve her on a daily basis. Frankly,  _ she’s _ being served  _ well  _ right now- she could be biased because of the fact that it’s been awhile since she’s really been with anybody, but she’s beginning to doubt it less and less.

 

Beyoncé whines and pushes against Jordan's mouth and his fingers quickly, not caring about pacing herself. Jordan starts sucking a bruise into Beyoncé's thigh and she moans at how sensitive his teeth make her skin feel, and she pushes Jordan's head back between her legs and whines his name as she feels herself getting closer. When she finally comes, she's accidentally trapping his head between her thighs and pulling his hair, letting out quiet gasps as he keeps licking at her throughout it.

 

Beyonce opens her legs up and Jordan stands to his feet, kissing her hard, and she can taste herself on his tongue. 

 

“Sorry about trying to suffocate you just now,” Beyoncé breathes when they part.

 

“Nonsense,” Jordan says, tilting her head back gently to kiss down her throat gently, nipping at her collarbone when he gets to it.

 

Nonsense. 

 

Nonsense. What else falls under that definition for him? 

 

Beyoncé unbuckles his belt and her lips capture his in a slow, heated kiss. She tugs his pants down enough to be able to stroke him and he bites her lip, accidentally making it rough when she twists her hand. She grabs at his shirt with her other hand, fingers brushing against patches he probably earned for climbing the ranks while out being brave and daring in the name of patriotism.

 

“Got a condom?” Beyoncé asks softly as Jordan tries to kiss her.

 

“I do, but it's in my jacket-” Jordan sticks his head out of the door. “Boys, one of you, hand me my jacket, will you? ‘Preciate it.”

 

Beyoncé watches as Donny stumbles over to hand Jordan his jacket. He peeks through the crack of the door and smiles, his cheeks an adorable shade of pink because of the alcohol he's had. He waves, and Beyoncé covers herself as well as possible and smiles. Jordan tosses his jacket back at Donny.

 

“Okay, Teddy Ballgame, go somewhere else with all of that, this one’s mine,” he says, shutting the door as Donny giggles. “Son of a bitch is too pretty.”

 

“He's cute, but he's no you,” Beyoncé says, letting her torn dress fall off of her shoulders and onto the floor.

 

“Thank you!” Donny says from behind the door. Jordan steps out of his pants and rolls his eyes.

 

“Fuck outta here, Donny,” Jordan shouts as he picks Beyoncé up and she wraps her legs around his waist. “I’m busy!”

 

“Sorry-” Donny burps. “Sorry, ‘tenant.”

 

It's Beyoncé's turn to giggle, but her laughter ceases shortly after it starts when she feels him push into her slowly. The feeling of being stretched out is something Beyoncé kind of missed, but because it's been so long, the feeling’s a little foreign, and she grimaces. 

 

She sucks a harsh breath in through her teeth. “Fuck.”

 

“You okay?” Jordan asks, holding her like she's something fragile while he fucks her unhurriedly, the sweat collecting on his forehead due to the hot, cramped room making the gel in hair hold less and causing a few strands of it to hang in his face.

 

Beyoncé holds his face, kissing him eagerly and sighing into his mouth. She wants to egg him on, see what his limits are; however, she likes what he's giving her now, and she finds it very sweet how he's being gentle. It's a real tossup for her, but she decides that she wants- needs- more. He puts his head on her shoulder and her fingers are laced through his hair.

 

“Harder,” she tells him.

 

“I’m sorry?” he asks expectantly.

 

“Lieutenant-”

 

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, pushing Beyoncé against a shelf and circling his hips when he gets as deep in her as possible. 

 

“Anytime.”

 

Beyoncé tries to joke, but she ruins it with a lung-puncturing yell that comes as a result of Jordan fucking her so hard that the shelves behind her shake and creak from the force. She whines at the feeling of his fingers digging into her ass roughly and when she hears his quiet, huffed out breaths underneath her shouting, she loves it so much that she wants to put the sound on a record so she can hear it anytime she pleases.

 

“You are the prettiest thing I've seen since I stepped back into the country,” Jordan grunts into her ear, “and I’m saying that even after I passed all the pinup girls they had waiting for us when we landed.”

 

“Fuck,” Beyoncé mutters, too far gone to have anything coherent to say. She's seeing stars and asking for more, her words slurring together and ending in short yells and sighs.

 

“I ain't got much more left,” he says with a breathy laugh.

 

How hard she's getting fucked hurts her a slight amount, but it's enough to where she's come to enjoy it, and part of her is deeply pained when he turns down her request. She helps herself along by rubbing her clit and he kisses her again, and he's hot and bothered and everything she’d hoped for when she fantasized about him. She feels numb in the brain, but at the same time she feels like someone's lit her whole body on fire. Her toes curl and she grabs his face, telling him she's about to come and biting her lip hard when the shelves dig into her back. Her head falls back onto them as he thrusts so roughly that it makes Beyoncé cry for half a second.

 

“Eyes on me,” Jordan says.

 

She looks at him. “Tell me I’m better than the girls in Nice,” she half-jokes.

 

“You’re prettier  _ and  _ you’re a better fuck,” Jordan responds with a chuckle, “Didn't take you to be a competitive type.”

 

Beyoncé  _ isn't  _ a competitive woman, but something about how he compares her to other women makes her feel a strange mix of pride and endearment. She comes hard and unexpectedly, seriously crying as Jordan doesn't slow down, and she watches in slight wonder when he finishes right after her, burying his face into her neck and groaning.

 

* * *

 

After they spend a few minutes coming down, Jordan's letting Beyoncé back onto the floor and she's panicking about her dress.

 

“Donny!” Jordan shouts as he fastens his belt and opens his shirt. 

 

“Yeah?” Donny slurs through the door.

 

“Get me my jacket, you alcoholic brute,” Jordan orders lightheartedly.

 

A jacket’s shoved through a crack in the door and Jordan's hanging it on the doorknob while he takes his shirt off and hands it to Beyoncé. She grins and puts it on, surprised at how long it is on her, and she watches happily as Jordan marches right out of the closet backwards because he's demanding another round of drinks and that she has to let him take her out if he finishes his faster than everyone else.

 

She's not basing her decision on the outcome of the game.


End file.
